


Those Blue Memories Start Calling

by littledust



Category: Graceland (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Families of Choice, Fix-It, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 08:48:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2845085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledust/pseuds/littledust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of season one, Johnny insists that they celebrate Christmas at Graceland. (Contains no spoilers for S2.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Blue Memories Start Calling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bette/gifts).



> A treat for you, dear recipient! ♥

When Johnny plugs in all the lights for the first time, half of their county goes dark.

Paige is next to him, eating potato chip after nonchalant potato chip out of a bag. "I thought Navy SEALs were good at this kinda stuff," she says, and bites down.

"You think you know me," Johnny says, and they spend a few minutes making faces at each other until DJ comes out to yell at them for messing up his high score on Internet poker, or whatever he's using this time as a cover for watching cute puppy videos on YouTube.

"And why the hell are you even hanging all this crap up?" DJ demands, pointing an accusing finger at the house.

"If by 'crap' you mean 'holiday lighting worthy of an Emmy.' What are you, some kind of Grinch?"

Johnny isn't about to let Graceland go through another Christmas unfestivized, so he starts another lighting design from scratch, this time more careful to take any potential faulty wiring into account. He spends way more money than he should on life-size light-up reindeer, and definitely way more time than he should building his own light-up Gonzo (dressed as Charles Dickens) and Rizzo the Rat. Some classics never go out of style.

The second time he plugs in all the lights, everything works. He's even dragged out the rest of the gang to admire his work, though most of them are cringing and shielding their eyes. It's not Christmas unless astronauts can see your house from space, or so his mama told him, as long as someone else was paying the electricity bill.

"Who pays our electricity bill, anyway?" Johnny asks. "FBI, CIA, DEA?"

"I think they split it," Briggs says. He has a beer in one hand, and he's one of the few people smiling in the warm glow of about a million Christmas lights. "Gonna be interesting when they get the bill for December."

"Yeah, real interesting," Charlie mutters. "Like they need more of an excuse to fight."

Johnny spreads his arms wide. "Hey! Lights! Can't argue with the spirit of the season! We are doing it up right this year, from stockings all the way to Three Kings Day."

"Is that why there are so many weird socks on the couch?" Paige asks. "I thought you had either developed a fetish or taken a second job as a mall elf."

"Hilarious." Johnny shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "I thought that maybe we could hang up the stockings together. And before you say anything, Briggs, I know you don't celebrate, so you have the nondenominational blue one with the yellow zigzags. I thought it was cool."

"It is cool, Johnny." Briggs smiles, but that expression means nothing coming from him, not when it doesn't reach his eyes. "You got six stockings." Paige and Charlie look away; DJ crosses his arms.

"We'll hang five," Johnny says. "If anybody else crashes the awesome Christmas party we're going to throw, we'll just be prepared, is all. Not to jinx anything."

For whatever reason, that admission is what gets the rest of his wayward housemates to look, really _look_ , at Graceland all lit up for the season. It's the glowing candy canes over the kitchen windows that get Paige, the blinking nose on Rudolph that gets DJ, and the snowman that gets Briggs. Charlie, because she is a woman of great taste, starts grinning as soon as she sets eyes on Gonzo.

"I guess we can make the inside as tacky as the outside," Charlie says, sliding an arm around Johnny's waist to squeeze him close.

*

This whole Christmas fever thing is stupid. DJ says as much while they're decorating the tree, and this time it's Johnny _and_ Charlie _and_ Paige who yell at him. Johnny's Christmas fever is contagious.

Of course, DJ goes to the mall to escape it, which is possibly the worst decision he's ever made without the influence of alcohol.

" _Jesus,_ " is all he can say at the pandemonium all around him. The place is crawling with tired, irritated-looking adults lugging heavy bags and small, crying children begging for the latest toy. The cacophony adds up to one serious headache already pounding against the inside of his skull. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he adds for good measure, and a little old lady glares at him in passing. Really, she's surprised by mild blasphemy at the mall?

Whatever.

His feet betray him, leading him directly toward a shelf stocked with toys all the kids keep screaming for. A large, remote-operated toy police car catches his eye, promising "real flashing lights" and "authentic siren noises." It's a toy to drive any parent crazy and delight any little kid, and DJ smiles when he picks up the box. He'll wrap it, and he'll write a card that his son will never read, too busy tearing off the wrapping paper, and then--

\--then what? Santa doesn't send gifts through the mail, and his son doesn't know who his father is. DJ's gut churns thick and sour, and he puts the box back on the shelf. What, was he hoping to give his son some kind of clue? Turn up on his ex's doorstep and have everything fall into place, have a family again?

DJ drags himself to another store. Shopping is the last thing he wants to do now, but he _did_ say he'd pick up candy canes for whatever stupid Christmas project Paige has running. Johnny's lights have driven his roommates to Christmas fever. DJ picks up a box of candy canes and doesn't think about the toy car. DJ grabs a prettily-wrapped jar of hot chocolate mix and doesn't think about the toy car. DJ goes back for _another_ box of candy canes, because now he's got peppermint hot chocolate on the brain even though the weather isn't even goddamn cold.

He doesn't think about the toy car, and the not-thinking is a smaller headache inside his larger one, steel-pointed sharp. DJ goes from shelf to shelf, thinking of the stockings Johnny ordered for them all. Be a pretty sad Christmas party with nothing inside them, or so he tells himself as he picks out a few novelty keychains for Johnny. Now he can carry around a menagerie of small plastic animals that poop when you squeeze them. DJ chuckles a little, picturing his face.

Paige gets bubble bath that smells softly of vanilla and cinnamon. Briggs gets a copy of the latest Tom Clancy novel, because it'll make him laugh and then he'll actually read it in secret. Charlie gets a calendar of half-naked firemen that makes DJ grin, picturing her proudly hanging it up in the kitchen for all to enjoy. And for the sixth stocking--well, DJ buys a whole bunch of candy, just in case anyone else comes home.

*

"It's tradition," Paige says, because Johnny has been using the phrase to win any Christmas-related arguments for _weeks_.

"I can't even eat one gumdrop before we make our houses?" Johnny asks, but puts the bag down in resignation. "Man, you are like the gingerbread house dictator."

"Mm," Paige says, popping one frosting-covered finger in her mouth. Also traditional: the tasting of the frosting, just in case. She and her sister used to get in trouble for sneaking spoonfuls of the stuff when they were supposed to use it to glue their gingerbread houses together. Construction was only appealing for so long, and the sugary sweetness tempting.

The rest of the house files into the kitchen; all bear smiles ranging from amused to delighted at the sight of the table laid out with gingerbread house supplies. In addition to the huge bowl of frosting, there are plates and plastic knives for everyone, more boxes of graham crackers than they can eat in a year, and dozens of candies poured into separate bowls. The candy canes rest in the place of honor in the center of the table, a testimonial to Graceland's growing Christmas spirit. (Really, if _DJ_ gets excited about holiday stuff, the rest of them have no excuse.)

Well, Briggs has an excuse, since he doesn't celebrate, but he's the one that made them boozy eggnog. Paige takes a quick, appreciative sip from the glass he hands her before announcing, "Okay, let's get building! Best house wins the leftover candy of your choice."

"Oh, it is on," Charlie says, her eyes narrowing.

"You suckers got nothing on me," Johnny says. "I can still make Lego castles in my _sleep_."

"Doesn't mean anything."

"You telling me that gingerbread houses have over a thousand pieces?"

Their light-hearted bickering continues over rich, rum-laden glasses of eggnog and gingerbread house construction. Paige makes a few suggestions here and there to preserve the structural integrity of the houses, but everyone here is pretty good on their own. Johnny patterns the roof of his with gumdrops. DJ, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth, unravels a Twizzler to make a little wreath for his house's little door. Briggs has a two-story house going on, festooned with M&Ms. Charlie carefully breaks a graham cracker into smaller pieces to make a chimney, complete with a puff of marshmallow smoke emerging from the top. It's gorgeous and it's wonderful and it feels like _home_.

There's a bubble in Paige's chest, one that wants to burst out as happy tears. (Too much eggnog. No, there's no such thing.) She starts her own gingerbread house without her heart set on it looking like any one building in particular; when she pauses after fifteen minutes, she laughs aloud.

"It's Graceland," she says. "I made Graceland. Look--there's the living room, and there's my room, and there's the kitchen, and my bedroom goes right here."

Everyone else stops festooning their own gingerbread houses to look at hers. "I see it," Briggs says, tilting his head to the side. "You need some sugar sand, though, for the beach outside."

"And some powdered sugar snow!" Charlie adds, already up to search for the necessary supplies.

In the end, nobody wins the gingerbread house contest, but they all get a tiny, sweet replica of their home.

*

"I'm not saying it's not a good movie, I'm just saying it isn't a Christmas movie," Paige insists, presenting the _Kiss Kiss Bang Bang_ DVD case with a flourish.

Paul was wondering when one of them would notice. "Listen, if you want the nonbeliever to be part of your Christmas fever, you gotta keep the classics in rotation," he says, making a circle in the air with his finger on the word "rotation." Paige rolls her eyes at the gesture and his statement alike.

"Like you don't want to watch _Die Hard_."

"That's different! _Die Hard_ is about Bruce Willis trying to save people, not Robert Downey Jr. being wittier than everyone else!"

Paul takes an unrepentant sip of his mulled wine. For once, it feels like the season to be inside drinking hot drinks by a fire--outside is gray, rainy, and chilly. It's the perfect atmosphere for a Christmas Eve movie marathon, and Johnny, their unofficial festivities master, put Paul in charge of movie selection. He does not take such responsibility lightly. "I like the noir satire, and you know you do, too. We all must cope with our cloak and dagger lives; why not learn to laugh at it?"

"Very philosophical," Charlie says, squeezing his shoulder as she passes by. Things between them are finally settling down, though that in itself gives Paul a pang of regret. He never thought he'd see the day where he'd be _glad_ the spark has died down to friendship. Hell of a crazy year. "I vote we start with _Die Hard_. Keep everybody happy."

Johnny comes in from the kitchen, bearing a huge bowl of popcorn. "Hell yeah, we're starting with _Die Hard_! Why don't we all have our own Argyle?"

"Because involving civilians isn't a good idea?" Charlie suggests, but the sparkle in her eye gives her away. Johnny throws a piece of popcorn at her. "Let's hope terrorists don't attack tonight, 'cause I already got a good buzz going on."

Lured in by the smell of fresh popcorn, the sound of movie gunfire, or maybe Johnny pounding on their doors (third scenario most likely), the rest of the household trickles in. Really, Paul loves watching _Die Hard_ with a bunch of agents because they can't help but offer commentary as the plot unfolds. _I would have done it this way, physics doesn't work that way, that reminds me of this one stakeout that went bad, this whole movie makes me glad I've never lost my shoes on the job._ You can tell a lot about an agent by how they react to _Die Hard_ , and there's a part of Paul that still has to know everyone on his team down to the last molecule.

It's probably unhealthy.

Still, the mulled wine and the jokes and the laughter go a long way toward turning that part of Paul's brain off. Johnny keeps stealing DJ's popcorn when DJ isn't looking, exactly like the annoying little brother he'll always be, on some level. DJ pretends not to notice, though he and Paige exchange more than a few "mature adult" eyerolls. Every now and then, Charlie will cast a longing look at the empty cushions. They're three down, but at least two are safely away. One--it just feels like one is lost, and Paul doesn't know what to do with that.

Drink mulled wine and watch Bruce Willis save the day, that's what he'll do.

*

Charlie smacks DJ's inquisitive hand away from the sauce simmering on the stove. "Out! Out! You can taste it when it's done!"

"I just want to know how Christmas sauce is different from your usual," DJ says, looking wounded.

"I repeat: you can taste it when it's done!"

Charlie loves cooking Christmas dinner. She reigns supreme over Christmas dinner, like Briggs reigns supreme over their liquor collection and Johnny reigns supreme over the whole holiday spirit gig. The only problem with cooking Christmas dinner is that it leaves her exhausted, sweaty, and smelling like every single one of the meats she put into the sauce and meatballs. "Yo, Paige!"

Paige, who has stayed out of the kitchen up until this point because she is a smart woman, pokes her head in. "You ready for me to do the garlic bread?"

"And watch the sauce, yeah. Chef Charlie--" a family nickname, pronouncing the "ch" in "chef" to go with her name-- "is ready for her shower. Kitchen's all yours. Briggs is allowed in to make dessert, but _not_ to touch the sauce."

"Yeah, yeah, get out of here." Paige drops her a curled-eyelashes wink, already dressed and made up for the party.

Charlie exits, tossing her apron behind her, and makes her way to the bathroom, where blessed hot water awaits her. She peels off her clothes, which might have to be washed twice before all the hot cooking smells leave the fabric, and wrinkles her nose at the scent of her hair. Christ, how can cooking taste so good but smell so bad? And how is she going to tame freshly washed hair and still arrive on time to Christmas dinner?

Whatever. She cooks, everyone else caters to her whims. Simple as that.

When the water hissing from the shower is as hot as Charlie can stand, she steps under the spray, already reaching for the shampoo. A cascade of citrus-scented bubbles takes care of all the cooking smells, and she scrubs away accumulated cooking grime until her skin gleams wet and clean. Charlie turns off the water with a sigh of regret; if she stays to enjoy the hot water, she'll turn into a prune and she'll _definitely_ be late. She makes quick work of toweling off, and then it's on to her bedroom.

Charlie's a big fan of the little red dress. This year, she's gone sleeveless, but with a high neckline so the skirt of the dress can be just short of indecent. A pair of stockings, black heels, and jingle bell earrings later, and she's festive enough for any Christmas party. Charlie surveys the wet mass of her hair in her mirror before grumbling, "Fuck it," and throwing it up in a bun with some bobby pins. She'll regret it tomorrow, but that's future Charlie's problem. Present Charlie is going to get downstairs just in time to turn off the stove and stop DJ from stealing a meatball.

Makeup. Right. Charlie gives herself smoky eyes and a bold red lip, smacking her lips at herself in the mirror. There's no one here to impress, just all the family that they can invite to Graceland--which is basically just them.

Which is why she drops her mascara wand when the doorbell rings.

*

He doesn't show up empty-handed. He can't, after all this time, and Charlie told him at the airport that if he ever came back, he'd have to sing for his supper.

"Hi," Mike says when Briggs opens the door. Of course it's Briggs, because nothing is ever easy and he might as well get the hard part over with first. "Can you, um, can you bring the others here, too?"

Briggs shuts the door in his face and Mike's heart sinks all the way to his soaking shoes. He thought he left behind all the nasty weather on the East Coast, but the West Coast is doing its best to sink into holiday gloom. _Pathetic fallacy is real,_ he thinks, and starts to turn around. God, why did he think this was a good idea? He was pretty definitive about cutting his ties, it was his goddamn choice, and it doesn't _matter_ that he chose wrong, because Graceland doesn't have to let him make it right.

The door opens again, and this time everyone has crowded into the doorway, faces all registering various degrees of surprise. "Levi!" Johnny yells out, the first one to recover. "Get in here and celebrate!"

"Well, actually, a gracious lady, probably the lady who made dinner if my nose tells me right, told me that I'd have to sing for it," Mike says, now grinning. "You are now going to enjoy three very badly played chords."

Paige gives him a crooked smile. "I was wondering why you had that guitar."

Mike once knew more than three chords on the guitar, but he's long since out of practice from high school. Still, when someone asked him what he was doing for the holidays and all he could think about was Graceland, this crazy plan popped into his head. He put in for his holiday leave, bought his plane ticket, and practiced this song with the same vigor he once practiced Spanish (albeit with more success).

The end result is him standing here in front of Graceland, in front of people who were sometimes his enemies but always his friends, singing "Blue Christmas" in as clear a voice as he can muster. He's no Elvis, but he can carry a tune, and he only fumbles the chords once or twice. By the end of the song, Charlie is wiping streaks off mascara off her face.

"It wasn't _that_ good," Mike protests.

"Shut up and hug me," she says. "Then I'm going to stuff your face with meatballs."

"Can I put my guitar away first?"

Mike's not sure who pulls him inside. All he knows is that he's home.


End file.
